User blog:Sceptileisgreat14/The Cell guarded by the Abyss Wanderer
So I wrote a short story, and I had no real place to put it... You guys are cool, and this place seems like a more relevant area for such blogs. No one has to read this, but any feedback would be most appreciated <3 Although, I hope that I'm not intruding, and self-inserting myself into your wiki. If so sorry ;-; Anyway, the story: I live in deep solitude; a type that is apparently inescapable. My hollowed eyes only know of cell bars, and the edgeless darkness that lies beyond. In some surreal sense, I find that abyss more comforting than the dull cell itself; a place of confinement so utterly terrible, that I find it hard to describe what exactly makes it so. Perhaps most prevalent is the spectacular minuteness of the space that I live, for I feel almost like a caged mouse, but rather than a pet, one that is to be killed. Effectively, a prisoner, awaiting an execution, except I am not quite sure if that’ll ever be. I wish it to be, however. There’s something on the other side of the cell. Of this I am quite certain, unless my senses abandon me. I can hear a faint and exhausted breath on the other side. At points, it appears quite sad and hardened, but at others, mostly at times that I exhale my outrage, it is sadistic; almost an evil laughter, evidently at my expense. I can’t communicate, on accounts on my lack of a voice, so I find that I write down my thoughts proactively; only, there isn’t anything to write them down efficiently with. As it would be, I took affection to this stone wall that vacates to the back of the cell, and here, I write, as if a mental patient, with a pen of sorts, fashioned from chiselled rock – of which was made through my own hard labour. I had nothing in this room to start, and only in my own effort, am I able to afford what rather uses my situation to label itself, as luxury. I’ve spent however long musing myself with these writings, but only now, after what must be aeons passed, I am trying to reach someone beyond my own psyche. I’m of no use in relation to any possible escape. I’m hoping that I can maybe reach whatever is out there; perhaps tap into its morals. It knows I’m here, locked away, and I very much believe that it holds the quite literal key to my escape. Indeed, it might just be a trivial matter of getting its attention, to get it to turn its head. My efforts here would be in vein if it weren’t for the infernal scratching that my makeshift carving tool makes. Sometimes I feel that it even makes the stained blood on my chest reanimate, and subsequently coil, it is that painful. Hopefully, it gets its attention, and furthermore, my writing referring to it shows that I am still sentient. How I long for the creature to let me out…How I disease my ears with the irritant squeals of rock in an attempt to do that. After a while, it does feel that the mental pain caused by such sounds overtakes the horrible rip in my stomach, that in comparison, is more of a simple discomfort. The wound there is closed, but still hurts harshly. I must continue, despite the horrible agony as there is no sense in using such valuable, yet limitless time, to make sure that it is working. I can hear the creature coming closer as I write; slowly, but surely. I must continue to draw it closer. Its dire breath ever more tangible, but at that becoming more of a pant. I must let it know of my dreams, or should I say nightmares, where its existence borders along reality. It comes over, only it doesn’t free me. Well, in a way it does, however not conventionally. Constantly I find myself in a nightmare, where a giant talon comes and takes me through the cell; skinning me alive, and I stay that way indefinitely, apparently. I’m not sure what happens then, as I awake after, as if my screams penetrate the dream bubble. I don’t think I can take another one, but as it would appear, I won’t need to. The creature…It draws closer. I can sense somewhat of a presence forming behind me; the steps are beckoning, and faintly, I can hear something more than breath. Perhaps a growl, maybe a plea of innocence as it resolves to set me free. Only, I find that it stumbles along, and at points, becomes hesitant in its marching. In fact, it gives me time to keep going with my scalping of the wall; it might be waiting for me to finish. Astonishingly, without a notion of the degradation throughout, I found that my chisel burned through; becoming no more than a splinter surrounded by ash particles, that crumbled in my hand, like sand. I was lost, and for a brief moment I was forced to stop. That was, until my determination, or rather my obsession, forced me to innovate. I could no longer hear the movement of the creature, and perhaps more scarily, I couldn’t hear its breath; at a point where I fully expected for it to be behind my neck. I panicked, and now I write in my own red ink. I ripped open my stomach once more, and burrowed into it with discord. I trembled firstly, but I thrived through my discomfort, and satiated my thirst to continue my writing; of which I am now caught up to modern era. The splinter acts as a fine brush, more so than my blotchy fingers. Perhaps most significant is that the irritant noise, softens. However, it still lingers, which I feel is greatly important. I’m ecstatic! I can hear it coming closer. Its steps gentle but colossus in stature. I tremble more, but this time with excitement… and a slight weakness, but that is only an adherent formality. A sacrifice, if you will. Suddenly, I feel its breath. It it’s that close. Certainly if there were any fragments of light in this dim room, there would have been a shadow. Despite its presence however… I can’t bring myself to stop. My words will be the death of me, as it would appear. I’m losing a lot of resource, my blood is thinning; but sub-consciously, I continue. Profoundly, I now re-imagine the creature, as sadistic, as akin to my moments of outrage. I know it still stands there, watching me at my worst, and doing nothing about it. That thought makes me convulse, and I hope it knows it, and surely, it does. Thoughts: My legs have collapsed under me, as if something has self-destructed. I fall back, both actually and metaphorically, for now, I no longer write; I cannot write. I cannot speak. I can only think, and see. I didn’t realise until a moment had passed, that I was staring back at the abyss, and perhaps more than that, the creature; or at least, what I thought was one. Then again, what is a creature? What contrasts a creature from human? I look at this thing, and I can’t quite honestly tell the difference. What I can say, however, or rather feel, is a sombre forgiveness, as it looks about as tired as I might describe myself. Its skin is a putrid colour, perhaps only matched by the heavy colour of the bulging eyes that this thing possesses. Its arms droop like tears, but without a single threat of menace. If anything, it seems fearful of me. It would make me feel queasy with condolence, if my stomach still lived; and wasn’t the mush that it has now become. It can’t reach in to my cell; a fact that I noticed the instant my eyes locked onto its stature. Weakly, it actually tries to pry the bars away, but of course, they don’t budge. All my previous reservations sink without grace, as I find myself discovering respect for it. Its tired limbs; its relinquished, and retreating flesh. I wish it away. The old image of a talon, tearing me apart seems so fake and warrantless that I abandon it forever. This moment with the creature is rather beautiful. I told it, or rather implied with my solemn eyes that it should just give in, and reluctantly, and painfully so, it does. It looks about as ready to die, as I picture myself, and with that, the creature also speaks through expression, a similar thought. I am dying… Dying with the knowledge that this thing that lives in the horrific darkness attempted to be my saviour, and did so with sympathy. I can tell that with its expression. Only… I am viewing it in a twisted scene; literally upside down, on the account that I fell backwards, and couldn’t possibly summon the strength to turn myself over. I couldn’t tell the difference. The abyss stayed the same but… But what does this make of this creature? Is it weak or omnipotent? Am I perceiving truth or what I have no choice but to take as such? I won’t find out in this cell. Perhaps, this internal darkness that dilutes it; a darkness that in no way compares to that of the abyss, is the only way out. I have no choice but to venture…. 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